


Pardon

by howdy-charlie (howdycharlie), howdycharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8651245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howdycharlie/pseuds/howdy-charlie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/howdycharlie/pseuds/howdycharlie
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes immediately pursues his interest in Dr. John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knows almost immediately. He takes one look at Dr. Watson and he wants him. Not in a grand, romantic way, but he wouldn’t complain if Dr. Watson fucked him. Sherlock isn’t one hundred percent certain that they are on the same wavelength, but when their eyes meet, Sherlock knows he could find a way into bed with him. It’s obvious that Sherlock should be concerned about these desires because, as all of England knows, he is married to his work. Either way, he wants John Watson.

Quickly Sherlock deduces that John is at least curious about men, particularly after his time in battle, and he is definitely single. No man would carry himself the way Dr. Watson does if they were in a content, committed relationship. 

Right. Sherlock knows he can find a way into bed with him.

After Sherlock leaves, John follows him, just as he anticipated. When faced with Sherlock’s deductive skills, individuals typically either turn away from him or they chase after him. Sherlock stops in his tracks when he hears the cane hitting the floor because he knows John can’t keep up with him. 

“Yes, Dr. Watson?” he says, back still facing John.

“You were..” John catches his breath because he had to rush out of the lab and speed obviously isn’t his strength these days. “Were you flirting with me?” He squints, just barely cocks his head to the side. He is obviously trying his best to be modest, playing naive (or perhaps genuinely naive) on the off chance that he was reading him wrong. No of course he wasn’t.

Finally Sherlock turns to face John, smirking at him. Not as stupid as he thought. “There is clearly a mutual attraction. It’s appropriate for us to pursue it, yes?” He barely arches an eyebrow suggestively. 

John shakes his head in disbelief. “So that’s it? You puzzle together that we’ve both got the hots for one another and that works? That chat-up line works?”

“Deduced.”

“Pardon?”

“I deduced it.”

 

They end up crammed together in a cubicle in the toilets, Sherlock scattering bites across as much of John’s neck as he can without unbuttoning his checked shirt, John’s hands on Sherlock’s arse. The two of them are moving fast, excited and urgent. The whole thing is quite thrilling. They’ve just met, someone could walk in, and Sherlock certainly is intriguing to say the least. Those three factors alone could arouse John and they certainly do. 

John is breathing heavy, the adrenaline, coffee on an empty stomach, and arousal practically coursing through his veins. They are alone, but John is still nervous and thrilled. Sherlock  _ licks  _ the edge of the scar on John’s shoulder and John whimpers. 

On that note, Sherlock drops to his knees and gets to work on John’s belt, staring up at him with his icy eyes the entire time. John feels vulnerable because he never noticed the softness to his eyes. John looks to the left and tilts his head back just a bit farther, breathing deeply and steadily. Sherlock pulls down John’s pants, freeing his erection and licks a stripe down his length. John’s breathing isn’t steady anymore.

Sherlock closes his eyes and begins to suck John off rather slowly, starting with the head. Sherlock is good at this and he has always known it, and the quiet noises John is making remind him. He is feeling confident, missing the weight of a cock in his mouth, and he takes him deep. John barely shifts forward, moaning through parted lips, and Sherlocks tries to take more as he hums happily around the cock, but he nearly gags. He’s embarrassed and turned on by this because it reminds him that John is certainly hung. Sherlock places his hands on John’s hips to stop him from thrusting into his mouth.

“S-sorry,” John gasps. He knows that apologizing isn’t sexy, but this is quite simply the best blowjob he has received since just after uni, and being polite is the least he can do in return.

Sherlock’s only reply is a nod as he sucks on the head of John’s cock.

It feels like complete madness, shacking up in a toilet cubicle with some strange, brilliant and alluring prat so he can suck you off, but John can’t help himself. Lying to a supposed genius would only make matters worse, and given the fact that he is quite literally breathless it was worth it. A connection is a connection, John reminds himself just before Sherlock increases suction, causing a moan to burst out of John. 

Sherlock places both of his elegant hands on John’s hips. Unfortunately not with enough pressure to leave bruises. 

It feels like complete madness and it is. 

John doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to dig one into Sherlock’s hair, but that feels intimate and inappropriate, so instead he puts one on his cane, and lets the other hang awkwardly by his side. 

Sherlock takes him as deep as he can again and John gasps. He swirls his tongue and John can’t help it, he just barely moves his hips forward, gripping onto his cane white knuckle tight. John is close, hanging by a thread, and Sherlock knows this, picking up his speed. Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s hips, making sure he doesn’t begin thrusting. Oh but wouldn’t that be a sight, Sherlock thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. John curses under his breath, looking down at Sherlock until he is cumming with a loud moan. Surprisingly, Sherlock swallows it all down without even the bat of an eyelash, and John sighs deeply. 

Sherlock pulls off of his cock and pulls John’s pants back up for him, and John meets him halfway, taking over the responsibility. While John zips his trousers, Sherlock stands, wiping at his knees. 

“Do you want me to..?” John asks.

“Afternoon, Dr. Watson.”

And Sherlock leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

John is ridiculous enough to meet him at 221B Baker Street. He goes on a case with him, which isn’t that ridiculous. In fact, he is ridiculous enough to move in with him.

They have yet to discuss their first encounter, which at this point feels like it was ages ago. And neither seems to really mind. Sherlock made his emotional unavailability quite clear over dinner. Emotional, not sexual unavailability but John felt too uncomfortable to ask about that bit. John isn’t looking for anything serious, isn’t even really looking at all, so he certainly doesn’t mind Sherlock’s answer.

Besides they’re flatmates. There’s no point in making it all go tits up less than a month in, John reassures himself.

He assumes that they won’t ever shag again, but that doesn’t stop him from staring at his plush lips and thinking about what it would be like to explore that mouth.

John has always been good at repressing. It’s just one more thing.

After shooting the cabbie and furiously scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, both John as well as Sherlock are quiet, despite the fact that both men can still feel the aftershocks of the last twenty-four hours.

The mood is bordering on chipper. John’s leg and shoulder are still right as rain. Sherlock, once again, proved his brilliance to a cold blooded killer, all of Scotland Yard, and perhaps Mycroft. The case is closed.

Currently Sherlock isn’t doing anything to keep himself busy and John is drying his hands with the only towel he has found thus far. The Chinese food has yet to arrive and they are starving.

“So..” John half says, half sighs, meeting Sherlock’s gaze as he takes a seat in the ragged red chair that he has started to favor.

Sherlock is cross-legged in front of the coffee table, sitting on top of his hands in an attempt to appear calm. He desperately wants a cuppa or a cigarette, he is not entirely sure which. Perhaps both. “So?”

John is clearly uncomfortable. Based on his past and the recent therapy he certainly isn’t great when it comes to talking about his emotions. However now is better than never. If he doesn’t speak up now, maybe he never will. The time will pass, a routine will or will not be set. But the idea of remaining close to someone he shagged on a bit of a whim is all very foreign to him. Close. Not exactly the appropriate word to use when describing his relationship with Sherlock.

He takes a deep breath. “I know that we are flatmates now and I assisted you in your uh, work tonight and you told me you are married to your work and-

“John.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock rubs his knees. He rocks forward and back a bit. “This doesn’t have to be entirely professional.” He is trying to bring feeling back into his fingers after sitting on them so long. “You don’t have to be shy.”

John blushes slightly because he can tell that Sherlock has deduced what it is he wants, but there is no use trying to lie now, so he awkwardly slides down beside Sherlock on the living room floor, places a hand on his cheek, and kisses him. It’s a wet, but gentle kiss, very unlike their last romantic encounter, full of biting and moaning and _now_. Sherlock immediately hums into it and John sighs, some sort of relief washing over them both.

Just one evening won’t hurt.

Soon Sherlock starts making room for him, spreading his long legs as much as he can and John killed a man for him tonight and John is wearing an ugly oatmeal coloured sweater. Nonetheless, he lets John kiss him and he kisses back, opening his mouth, leaning back farther farther _farther_ , reminding John that he is all sharp edges and long planes, until Sherlock’s back meets the rug. John flashes a smile and Sherlock bites his lower lip in response. So John carries on kissing him, hands on Sherlock’s back and he is trying to keep calm, trying to keep steady, but Sherlock grabs his arse tight and he moans. Sherlock is bold enough to straddle him with one leg and kiss him more forcefully, prying a thrust, then another, out of John until they are both panting.

John feels ridiculous, high on adrenaline, and absolutely starving, but he thrusts his hips until it moves Sherlock a bit on the carpet, starting a rhythm. Their cocks are lined up through the respective articles of clothing and it seems bizarre to John, rutting on the living room floor. But Sherlock seems to be doing just fine, his lips swollen, spilling out little moans of pleasure. It’s too late to stop now.

Only once while they’re actually getting each other off do they properly kiss. Sherlock cranes his head forward and captures John’s mouth, which tastes like the wine he had with dinner at Angelo’s and the toothpaste he missed on his chin this morning. He sucks John’s lower lip in between his teeth but never dares bite. John moans, sending a buzzing sensation across Sherlock’s mouth. After that Sherlock pulls away and it’s all heavy breathing and focussing on orgasm from there.

“Oh god,” John thinks aloud. In response Sherlock pushes John’s hips down more, increasing the pressure and causing John to increase the speed of the drag of his erection across Sherlock’s.

John kisses Sherlock’s glorious neck and is quite gentle, feeling the pulse beneath his alabaster skin. He doesn’t want to bite him, doesn’t want to consume him, just wants to feel him.

Sherlock tilts his head back a bit, wrecked, and gasps, “ _Yes_ John.”

Even with their clothes on it feels so good, so nice to slowly climb up to the edge together until the tension mounts. Sherlock hooks his other leg around John in an attempt to gain more friction between their bodies. Clearly it’s a success because his mouth drops open and his eyes close. He’s letting John do most of the work at this point, the thrusting and all, but he is still lifting his hips up a bit to meet John’s clothed cock with each stroke.

They are both desperate for an orgasm, desperate for release, and John hides in Sherlock’s neck, cursing, when Sherlock cums, gasping and crying out John’s name, meeting each thrust. Soon John is cumming too, quieting his moans against Sherlock’s skin, leaving his heart racing and his head swimming.

The flat falls quiet. John is still trying to catch his breath and Sherlock’s hands are still on his arse. Sherlock looks haggered.

There is a knock at the door and Sherlock lets out a dramatic sigh. John shifts uncomfortably and says, “I’ll get it,” because it is the polite thing to do despite having just cum in his pants.

Sherlock sits up on the living room floor, staring at John. A smirk barely settles on his lips.

They split the bill, and John allows Sherlock to have his fortune cookie.

 

After dinner, it is well past midnight and John knows he should at least attempt sleep. He stretches and yawns. Sherlock has opened his laptop and undone an additional button on his shirt. It’s looking likely that Sherlock is going to be up for a while.

John stands, stretching once more until his back cracks, and stares at Sherlock for a moment. He focusses on where Sherlock’s dark hair is muffed up in the back from sliding on the rug. Thankfully the memory distracts John from how uncomfortable he is. “Do you want to share a bed tonight or something?”

“There is a perfectly good bed upstairs that is included in your portion of the rent. You shouldn’t waste it,” he says, without looking up from the glowing screen in front of him. Sherlock’s tone isn’t biting, isn’t rude, is simply matter of fact.

John licks his lips, nods. “Right. Sorry. I’m off to bed. Good night, Sherlock.”

He doesn’t hear a reply on his way up the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks go by and they haven’t had another sexual encounter, and John hates looking at it that way. Occasionally their eyes lock for a few moments too long but neither makes a move. John isn’t entirely sure if he should blame himself or Sherlock. 

He goes on stealing looks at his flatmate when he is being attractive in one way or another, whether it be when his shirt shows off his narrow waist or when he secretly gives a damn about what John is watching on the telly. 

Eventually John assumes they are never going to have sex again and that if they were, it would have happened by now. Sherlock is detached like him and it will stay that way.

Then John meets Sarah. And he quite likes her. She laughs at his jokes and tolerates the mess that is his life living with Sherlock Holmes, even after the whole circus kidnapping fiasco on that one case. Nevertheless, they keep going out.

At one point Sherlock brings it up over dinner. They had just finished a case and somehow John was able to convince him to eat something. 

Sherlock was starving, practically shoveling food into his mouth. “So,” he says through a mouthful of chicken curry. “You’re still seeing Sarah, yeah?” It’s nonchalant. He is feeling a bit loose thanks to the red wine they’re sipping with dinner. 

John nods his head. “Yeah. Essentially.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrows and momentarily he freezes his chewing. “What do you mean?” 

“We go on dates, we see each other at work, that kind of thing. You know. Dating.” John wipes his mouth on a napkin and can’t help but observe and admire the twinkle in his eye that the alcohol has caused. He has to keep in mind that Sherlock doesn’t date, at least in the time John has known him he never has. 

“That’s essentially what we do. We spend time together, we see each other at work.” Still nonchalant.

John can’t help but smile a bit at Sherlock’s naivety. “That’s not exactly the whole picture, Sherlock.” 

“What do you mean?” He sets down his plastic fork, suddenly focusing on John and their conversation rather intently. He seems curious but also slightly frustrated. It drives Sherlock mad when he doesn’t understand things. But obviously human nature isn’t his strong suit.

John clears his throat. “Well, we go to dinner and to the cinema and um.. Have sex. That kind of thing.” He is trying to keep it casual, matter of fact. Sometimes mates talked about the women they shag. No big deal.

“We’ve had sex.”

Oh. “I suppose you’re right.” 

After that neither spoke for the rest of dinner.

 

John has a date with Sarah this evening. John doesn’t tell Sherlock where they are going, but he can assume that it’s dinner. At this hour, what else would they be doing? These days John cannot go to the cinema because he falls asleep. And it is too early to be going out for drinks. And John isn’t much of a social drinker and Sarah doesn’t like beer like John does, she probably likes martinis and such. 

So Sherlock spends the evening in. He answers the two questions on his blog. He calls Lestrade at least four times asking for a case. At some point a cup of tea appears, likely courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. He searches the flat for his favourite petri dish for approximately thirteen minutes and eight and a half seconds, before realizing he isn’t even interested in experimenting. He resorts to lying on the sofa, moping, bored. He is trying to blow the curl hanging lowest on his forehead when his phone buzzes. He grabs his phone off the coffee table, overly excited, hoping it’s Lestrade with a case. He’ll be ready in an instant, coat and shoes relatively close to the door. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” he mutters to himself.

It isn’t Lestrade. It’s a text message from John.

Have you eaten? If not I can bring you something on my way home.

Sherlock gives up and finally brushes the stray hair off of his forehead with his hand. I already ate. He lies.

Alright. I’ll be home in a bit. I think Sarah is going to come up with me. Ok?

Sherlock knows that this is code for ‘Please don’t let there be a fire in the flat or for there to be any limbs thawing on the kitchen counter’. He sighs, lying back down on the sofa. The sooner John gets home, the sooner he can get back to his experiments. 

 

They are coming back from dinner and John is about to kiss Sarah good night at the door when she asks him, “May I come in?” with a glint in her eye.

John nods, trying his best to conceal how eager he is before he kisses her for a moment and says, “Yes you may.”

When they walk in, Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table with his goggles on. Sarah greets Sherlock with a, “Hi, Sherlock” and all he says in reply is, “Yes hello,” without looking up from his work. Sarah doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it and follows John up the stairs and chuckles at the hurry he is in. 

“Let me take your coat,” John says and settles his hands on her hips after placing her coat in an armchair. He slowly kisses her and she is a rather good kisser, but a rather tame kisser. Shortly after they settle on John’s bed he is undressing her and eventually he is fucking her, which is exciting because John has never fucked Sarah before. And John is enjoying it. It’s not too intense and Sarah rides him and they are gentle with one another. It’s nice. John is having a nice time.

Sherlock is rummaging around the sitting room looking for his pipettes because John hates when they’re in the silverware drawer. He finds one on the floor beside the fireplace. He crouches down to pick it up and on the way back to his full height he hears a moan from Sarah. He realizes immediately that John is having intercourse with Sarah and his mind goes wild. He wonders if John is causing such noises or if she is and he wonders what John looks like right now if John’s brow is sweaty and if he is rolling his hips and if he is moaning behind closed lips like he did in the cubicle at Bart’s and before Sherlock knows it he has worn a tear into his pipette with his thumbnail. 

John lets out a soft moan and picks up his speed a bit and says her name.

Sherlock hears that too and decides to forget the experiment. Forget the pipette. He takes a seat in his chair, pulling his violin out of his case and begins to tune each individual string in an attempt to drown out the sound of John making love to a woman with a bad haircut and boring life and the sound of John chuckling and moaning with some woman’s hands on his shoulders avoiding touching his scar and riding his cock.

John is moaning, kissing Sarah quite chastely on the lips when he hears the familiar plucking and tuning of strings and realizes that Sherlock is downstairs and he thinks of Sherlock’s hands on those strings and quite inconveniently he cums. Sarah kisses back rather wet and picks up speed and John kisses back until she is cumming too and he strokes her back.

Sherlock puts his violin back in its sleek case and decides to see what all he can make spark in the microwave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! I just wanted to take a quick moment to say thank you for your support. As always, your kudos, comments, and the like are always more than welcome and much appreciated. <3 I hope y'all enjoy this chapter!

John takes a trip to New Zealand with Sarah. Therefore Sherlock has the flat to himself. He does plenty of experiments, does plenty to keep himself busy. He stores feet in the refrigerator freely without John fussing about how unsanitary it is. He plays the violin until his fingers are sore. He updates his sock index one, two, three times. He takes some cases, but they’re all too simple too boring too predictable. Mrs. Hudson makes sure he has at least one meal a day. On one occasion she insists she stay and they play a round of Cluedo. Sherlock wins of course. 

“I know you’re missing John, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says and Sherlock can detect the pity in her voice. 

He rolls his eyes. “I have hardly noticed John’s absence, Mrs. Hudson. In fact I have enjoyed the solitude.” 

 

“You’re welcome to come and stay at mine tonight if you’d like,” Sarah tells John, folding another blouse into her suitcase. “If you’re going into work tomorrow we could share a cab.” 

John shakes his head and smiles. “I’ve got to go home tonight. Miss my bed. Need to make sure the plants haven’t died. That kind of thing.”

Sarah pauses her folding and shrugs her shoulders. “Alright.”

Her slight disappointment is obvious. It’s not clear as day, but it is obvious. “You okay?” John asks, tone soft around the edges.

Sarah eagerly nods. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. I’m just a bit tired. Hopefully I can sleep on the plane.”

John awkwardly pats her on the shoulder, considers kissing her on the cheek but decides against it. “Okay.” Then he proceeds to continue packing his own bag.

The silence builds too quickly. Sarah keeps sighing, John keeps checking his watch, and it is becoming more and more clear that the trip has certainly reached its end. 

John can’t take it anymore. “Are you put off by the fact that I want to go home when we land?”

Sarah zips her toiletry bag quickly and will not look him directly in the eye, which isn’t exactly normal for Sarah. Typically Sarah is quite bold. “Yes, John.” Still quite bold.

His brow furrows slightly. “Sorry, why? I’m not angry or anything I just don’t understand,” John says, and he means it. 

“Because you’re so clearly eager to get home and I’ve been having a nice time with you.”

John doesn’t understand how those two things are connected. He feels insulted and flattered at the same time. “Right. I’ve been having a nice time, too, Sarah. I really have. I’m just ready to go home.”

“Yeah I know. You have been checking the time constantly, checking your phone for texts constantly. It’s like you’re not here.” Her voice is matter of fact, not particularly bothered. Typical Sarah. Honest. Just stating the facts. 

“Perhaps I’m homesick.”

Sarah huffs. “Homesick for Sherlock Holmes is what you are,” she mumbles. 

John hesitates before he all too calmly sets his green sweater in his duffle bag, perfectly folded, only to be perfectly wrinkled in transit. “What?”

“John, you more than likely do not miss your bed. You could practically sleep standing up because of your time in Afghanistan. You don’t even have a house plant.”

Sometimes John almost forgets that Sarah is pretty damn smart. 

“I don’t even really mind that you miss your flatmate, that is perfectly understandable, but I wish you would be honest with me about it,” Sarah tells him, running a hand through her mousy brown hair before tying it up into a bun, preparing to face the brisk wind outside.

“I do not miss my flatmate. I will have to deal with a filthy kitchen, a trespassed bedroom, chemicals splattered on the rug, an empty fridge, and a grouchy flatmate. But,” John pauses, taking a deep breath because he suddenly realizes that a bit of anger is bubbling up in his chest. “I need some time alone. I need some time to reset.” 

“I don’t think I can do this, John.”

“What?”

Sarah takes a seat on the edge of bed. “I’m not sure we should see each other anymore.” 

She stands back up, slips on her shoes, hands John his duffel bag. “No hard feelings, John, I just cannot see you anymore.” Her facial expression is a bit disappointed, perhaps a bit sad, but her voice is still a bit frustrated. She was exhausted, and felt that her and John should be just friends. Genuinely. “Now we’ve got a plane to catch.”

 

John is in a horrible mood by the time he enters 221B. His jacket isn’t even all the way off his shoulders when Sherlock says, “Sarah Sawyer broke up with you. Perhaps it was because she realized she cannot handle your small habits in such a close proximity for an extended period of time. Or perhaps she had a wonderful time but would be too uncomfortable sharing a workspace with you from this point forward and she knows she cannot leave her job, so she must leave her boyfriend. Perhaps your friend told her too many embarrassing stories about you, thus-

“Shut up.”

The look on Sherlock’s face, his eyebrow raised, makes it clear that he is looking for an answer of sorts. 

“Yes, Sarah broke up with me.”

Sherlock returns his gaze back to the file in front of him. “There is beer in the refrigerator.” 

John is still angry, but he is admittedly rather impressed that Sherlock went to the shoppes willingly. He takes off his shoes by the front door and walks over to the fridge when Sherlock says, “By the feet,” and John eyes land on the severed feet, next to the six pack of beer. Aside from that, the fridge is empty. Now John is angry and hungry, a dreadful mix. He sighs, pops open a beer and takes a long drink.

Sherlock puts down his case file. “So will you be going to work tomorrow? I assume you won’t be given the fact that Sarah will be there. If you aren’t there is a case that may-

“Shut up. I’m ordering a pizza,” John practically barks, waving his phone back and forth a bit to prove it. 

Sherlock closes his mouth, broods at John.

John orders a pizza for himself, a lasagna for Sherlock and unpacks his bag while he waits for their meal to arrive. His clothes smell like the hotel room and smell a bit like Sarah and her floral perfume, but John knows there is no time for a shower before the pizza arrives and Sherlock will not be answering the door willingly. He compromises, changing into a different shirt to get the smell out of his nose. His leg aches and he takes a seat on the bed when the doorbell buzzes.

“Door!” Sherlock hollers, more than likely from the exact same spot on the sofa.

John sighs, standing, his limp protesting loudly as he approaches the staircase. Sherlock observes him step by step, but of course never makes a move to answer the and put John out of his misery.

John sits cross legged in front of the coffee table, Sherlock across him from, as they do most evenings when they order takeout. John opens the box of pizza and shoves the lasagna across the table to Sherlock.

“Not hungry.”

John sighs. “Sherlock, I don’t care. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Mrs. Hudson brought up biscuits and tea this morning.”

“Yes but it is now eight P.M. Eat.”

“I am still full.”

“Eat.”

“No.”

John fumes at Sherlock from the across the coffee table, but drops it, takes a bite of his pizza.

John is eating the last bit of crust when, just to appease him, Sherlock takes a single bite of his now lukewarm lasagna. John doesn’t acknowledge it, but notices. He can feel Sherlock staring at   
him.

“What?” John says, closing the box, standing, carrying it over to the bin. Without asking he takes Sherlock’s lasagna, tossing it onto the top shelf of the fridge. John may eat it for lunch tomorrow. 

“What is the matter with you, John?” Sherlock asks, following him to the kitchen. 

John can practically feel Sherlock’s gaze on him while he washes his hands at the sink. “Sarah broke up with me, Sherlock.” He takes another long swig of beer. “Remember?” 

“Yes of course but there’s something else. You’re frustrated.” 

John nods, refusing to play Sherlock’s game. “Yes of course I’m frustrated. Sarah just broke it off with me and I was travelling almost twenty four hours just after Sarah broke it off with me. So   
yes! I am frustrated!”

Sherlock looks him up and down. “Yes but your pupils are dilated. You can’t stop clenching your fist. You’re irritable and edgy, rather eager to get upstairs and go to bed even though you were in a reclined and seated position for most of the day. You keep licking your lips and.. Oh. John.”

John swallows back his frustration, sets his jaw. “Are you done?”

“You are sexually frustrated.”

John’s gaze does not waver. “Yes. Now let me go upstairs.” The part that Sherlock did not vocally deduce is that John and Sarah only had sex three times during their ten day trip. After dinner their first evening there, filled with hāngi dishes and red wine, John groped Sarah through her sheer baby blue blouse in the hotel until he followed her to the bedroom. He made love to her quietly beneath the sheets. The second was a lazy morning in that same bed when Sarah gives John a blowjob while he is groggy, half asleep, content. The last was two nights ago Sarah was tipsy after drinking a few martinis, her mouth and body pliant. The sex was fine, they just didn't have much of it. 

Now Sherlock takes a step closer and his gaze darkens. “Would you like to remedy this?” God that baritone. That velvety voice.   
John doesn’t even reply, he just practically lunges forward, kissing Sherlock, tangling his fingers in his hair. Thankfully Sherlock is just as eager, kissing back forcefully, moaning as John pulls his hair. In between kisses they start moving away from the kitchen sink when John murmurs, “Bedroom,” and Sherlock gasps back, “No no. Sofa,” and all John does in response is moan and bite Sherlock’s neck. 

John may not have missed his flatmate, but he missed this.

They collapse onto the couch, John on top of Sherlock, and Sherlock says, “If you want the proper friction between our cocks you’ve got to get lower than that otherwise-

“Shut. Up.” John retorts, furiously unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, trying his best to ignore the fact that he has never undressed Sherlock, never even actually seen his cock. Surprisingly, Sherlock does shut up and kisses John, biting on his lower lip. John moans in response, slipping Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulder, discarding it onto the floor. He wants Sherlock to behave and keep his mouth shut, but also could listen to him speak in hushed, seductive tones for hours.

“Make me shut up, John,” Sherlock whispers against his now swollen lips. 

John wants to fuck him so hard he screams. 

He settles between Sherlock’s legs, unfastening his belt, their gazes locked. He pulls at the button, the zip, until he is tugging down his trousers and pants. He has to ignore the fact that his mouth practically waters at the sight of Sherlock’s cock. John sits up onto his knees now, removing his own clothing. He settles back down on top of Sherlock, skin on skin. Sherlock kisses him, agonizingly soft and John moans, “Wank me.”

Sherlock’s only reply is wrapping a hand around himself and John, biting at the rough spot that John always misses while shaving, just beneath his chin. He starts to work his hand up and down and John gasps.

“Harder.” 

Sherlock tightens his grip, speeding up just a bit, eliciting a curse and a subtle nod from John. Soon John starts fucking his fist, their cocks sliding against one another, slick with precum. 

Sherlock gasps at the added friction. “Good, John.” 

John moans, pulling his hair, exposing Sherlock’s perfect and pale neck. He kisses him there, sucking the skin, not biting now. They keep their rhythm going, Sherlock’s hand meeting the pace of John’s hips. Sherlock wants to tell John that that feels good, please don’t stop, but he refrains, focuses on the task before him.

John forcefully kisses Sherlock, picks up his pace, bracing himself against the arm of the sofa, swearing into Sherlock’s mouth when he cums. John feels like something has finally relaxed within himself, that he can finally sleep well and is entirely blissed out when it occurs to him that Sherlock still hasn’t had an orgasm himself. He kisses Sherlock, settling a hand over Sherlock’s furiously pumping fist. 

“Come on Sherlock, cum,” John demands, his own grip tightening over Sherlock’s. Sherlock groans and his hips stutter, cum spurting out onto his exposed stomach. John silently settles back in between Sherlock’s legs, licking up his cum and Sherlock’s, primarily to return the favor for the fact that Sherlock swallowed when they were essentially strangers in the toilets at Bart’s. 

Sherlock stares down at him as he cleans up, his neck splotchy and red. “Nicely done, John,” he slurs, already looking for his shirt.

Something in John’s stomach clenches. “Do you want me to go up to my room now?”

Sherlock grabs his now crumpled gray shirt off the living room floor. He slips it on, buttons it up and nods his head. “If you want to.”

John doesn’t have the nerve to tell him he doesn’t.


End file.
